y una lancha cañonera,
y no pinté la bandera,
por la que voy a morí.
For some reason which Manuel could not fathom, the incongruous mixture that appeared in the song filled him with a vast sadness....
It was darkling outside. Afar, the saffron-hued soil was gleaming with the dying quivers of the sun, which was hidden by clouds that looked like fiery dragons; a tower here, a tree there, yonder a ramshackle shanty, broke the straight, monotonous line of the horizon. The western sky was a caldron of flames.
Then came darkness; the fields sank into gloom and the sun disappeared.
Over the tiny plank bridge that reached from one bank to the other passed a procession of dark women with bundles of clothes under their arms.
Manuel was overwhelmed by an all-engulfing anguish. From the distance, out of some restaurant, came the far-off droning of a guitar.
Vidal ran out of the veranda.
“I’m coming!” he cried.